


Perverted

by brownleaf



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Internalized Homophobia, Love Letters, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-28
Updated: 2020-05-26
Packaged: 2020-10-29 19:04:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20801438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brownleaf/pseuds/brownleaf
Summary: Thomas wants to hope again.





	1. Part one

1927

He keeps the locket in his pocket, so that when he moves he can feel the hard metal press against his skin, and exactly three days later he receives a letter.

_My Dearest T_, it begins, and Thomas' fists clench in something, excitement, perhaps, or shame at being excited, right there in the servants' hall, so tightly he crumples the edge of the paper. He folds the letter carefully, takes a breath. He will read it later, when he is alone. He schools his expression.

"Bad news?" Mr Bates says mildly.

A few glance at him. Miss Baxter looks worried; he tries not to imagine Mr Bates looks hopeful.

"No," says Thomas, just as mildly. He smiles, sudden and unexpected, and has to work hard to stop it taking over his face. "It is not bad news at all."

***

_My Dearest T,_

_I hope you will be warmed to hear I have arrived safely back in London. It is as grey and busy as ever, but I am sure you can picture it well. Perhaps you can picture my place of work, too. It looks rather different with the carpets up to be cleaned!_

_Yet I do not wish to talk about my employees - sometimes it rather feels as though I do nothing but. I wish to talk about you, and us. Our meeting <strike>feels something of a miracle</strike> is a happy surprise, and I hope our aquaintance continues long into the future. I rather feel we both need it._

_Yours,_  
_R_

***

The letters come weekly, sometimes twice a week. Once, thrice. He must be writing almost daily. But then, Thomas is too.

Now Carson has returned oncemore to retired bliss (good riddance), Thomas is busy. At first he waits until he is alone in his office to read the letters, but sometimes, if the family get second helpings at breakfast or decide to go away or have a picnic lunch or any of the other thoughtless whims such people have, Thomas might be on his feet, ordering or carrying or just standing in the breakfast room with the letter burning in his pocket and his palms tingling with the desire to open it, until late in the day. As a result he is distracted; he is sullen and snappish and he is trying so, so hard to not be that way anymore, to not be that _person_. And so he takes to just reading his letters during breakfast like everyone else. It feels like a risk, because it is a risk. He has to be careful his expression doesn't give him away, but he has had a lifetime of practice. And of course, no one asks anyway. He is allowed to receive post, and even if he were not, he is the butler. So long as he keeps the page turned carefully towards him, his space at head of the table offers him privacy, and it offers him freedom.

No one asks, then, until someone does.

"Have you got a sweetheart or something?" says Daisy, coming up behind him brandishing a pot of tea. Thomas jumps and crumples his letter in his hand. He regrets it immediately. Even though he has countless letters by now, stored in a locked box beneath his bed (he still remembers Phillip), every one is precious. And then he think, sudden and sickeningly automatics: how can I make her pay? It is a relief how easily the thought is dismissed. He breathes in sharply.

"What makes you think that?"

"Well," says Daisy, "You're getting all those letters, aren't you? And you look all soppy like when you're reading them."

He expects someone else to chip in, for Mr Bates to make some scathing remark, but everyone is silent, staring at their plates. Mrs Hughes glances at the maids, and Thomas realises: they are scared of his answer. Of what it will reveal, of what they will have to do about it. A man like him cannot simply have a sweetheart. He thinks of what the policemen called him. Pervert. His hands curl into fists.

"I don't believe that it is any of your concern, Daisy," says Thomas, and he stands.

As he leaves, he hears one of the maids giggle, "That means he does."

"But how can he?" says Andy, voice louder. Thomas stops in the door to his office. "He's -"

Mrs Hughes shushes him, but the damage is done. Thomas moves into the room and sits at his desk - _his_ desk, he has to remind himself, even now. He imagines how Andy would have finished that sentence. But he's an invert. But he's a queer. But he's a _pervert_. Thomas reaches beneath his sleeve and fingers the raised line. Everyone knows people like him don't find love. Don't find anything at all except a life of secrecy and solitude at best, and the inside of a cell at worst. Thomas thought he could make do with the former. Richard has alighted within him the kind of hope he hasn't felt, God, he hasn't felt since _Phillip. _He was brave, then. Sure of what he wanted, and the fact that he could get it. He's older, now. Tireder. Thomas runs a hand down his face, feels the light, feathering lines around his eyes, his lips. The years have not been kind to him, he knows. He also knows that for a man like him, they have been very kind indeed. But still, he can't help but want more, but _need_ more. What was it he said to Carson, a lifetime ago? _It's not against the law to hope._

Thomas wants to hope again. He wants to show that men like him can. He wants to be brave.

***

_My Dearest R,_

_It seems that people have finally chosen to forget the visit. I have thought this before, but when I least expect it a villager will come over to ask what they were like. Once it was at the public lavatories. My reasons for missing much of their visit do not seem fit, so I am usually forced to make up some patriotic nonsense. One particular fellow would not stop asking how the King of England takes his tea. I hope you can convince him to have milk no sugar, in case one day the two meet and I am found out._

_On that note, how do you take your tea? I am sure you are not one to prefer coffee, coming from Yorkshire yourself. I myself am partial to milk no sugar - likely why I made up such a lie! Or, if I can get it, with honey._

_It seems rather trivial knowledge, does it not? It is only that I want to know these details. I want to know everything about you, and you I._

_Your,_  
_T_

***

Anything Anna knows, or at least suspects, goes straight to Lady Mary, so he is unsurprised when she loiters after breakfast a few days later. She waits until Lord Grantham and Mr Branson have left before granting him a smile that almost reaches her eyes.

"I hear you have a correspondence, Barrow."

Even though he was expecting it, Thomas feels himself flush.

"I do, m'lady."

"I am sure you miss him dreadfully," says Lady Mary, and Thomas could laugh at her blasé, "I thought I might conceive some excuse for you to accompany me to London. I could say I want you to meet the staff of the London house. No one need suspect a thing."

She says it like it's a gift. And he supposes it is. A miracle, really. He wonders how any other Lady would react to the news that their butler has a male sweetheart. But still, he bristles.

"That's very kind, m'lady," he says stiffly.

"Not a bit," says Lady Mary, "But you sound unsure. I can assure you I am genuine."

"I do not doubt that, m'lady," he says, "It's just-"

Lady Mary raises an eyebrow "Just?"

"If I may speak candidly, m'lady."

"Please, do. It will be a welcome break."

"You believe Carson to be a better butler than me. I do not wish to give more reason for you to believe that by requiring special treatment."

"What makes you think that?" She sounds genuinely baffled, and Thomas is struck again by how much more the upstairs impact their lives than they impact theirs.

"Well, for a start, m'lady, by asking Carson to replace me for the Royal visit."

It is difficult to still be angry at such a slight when it lead to the best thing to ever happen to him. Difficult, but not impossible.

Lady Mary stares at him blankly for a moment before suddenly laughing.

"Oh, Barrow," she says, "I thought you of all people would understand. I was anxious over the coming visit, and heaven knows I couldn't blame myself for my ineptitude. It was mere chance I directed my frustrations towards you. You had done nothing wrong, yet I was beastly. I hope in taking this opportunity you can feel we are even oncemore."

Thomas can hardly believe what he is hearing. He takes her words and stores them away for dissection later.

"Well," he says, "Be that as it may, I am the butler now, and one without an underbutler. I cannot simply leave."

"We will ask Carson to replace you."

Thomas swallows. "We - cannot, m'lady."

"Why not? Not because of the royal visit, now I have explained myself to you."

Where to start? "Many reasons, m'lady. But mainly because you would have to tell him why. And he would-" His throat tightens, and he finishes lamely, "He would not approve."

She raises both eyebrows this time. "I did not take you to be a man seeking Carson's approval, Barrow."

"M'lady, I'm afraid Mr Carson's disapproval could have rather serious consequences."

It takes her a moment to understand. So great is her estimation of the old git, Thomas supposes. But then she says. "Oh."

"Indeed, m'lady."

"He disapproves of..." She waves a hand. _Of you_. Thomas nods, curtly and she sighs. "I confess, Barrow, I am surprised to hear it. Surprised, and disappointed."

Thomas doesn't know what to say to that, so remains silent. Lady Mary stares at a spot above his shoulder. For so long, in fact, he is about to clear his throat when she says suddenly, "We could say you are visiting family."

"They all know by now I'm not in contact with them." It comes out bitter. He adds a, "M'lady."

"A pity," says Lady Mary, "Well, I will mull it over. Let me know if you have any bright ideas."

"Of course, m'lady." He bows his head, even though it feels wrong in the circumstances, and leaves. And then has to stop and lean against the wall until his hands stop shaking.

***

My Dearest, T,

_I am truly sorry your parents treated you so. I wish I could say I am surprised, but of course such behaviour is unsurprising when directed towards men like us._

_My parents are rather a surprise, then. They do know about me - about all of me. As a child I had a very embarrassing habit of wearing my sister's dresses. Their suspicions stem from there. I wouldn't call them accepting; tolerant may be a better term. We have a very neat don't ask don't tell arrangement. My sister granted them grandchildren, so my presence every six months or so is enough. She too tolerated my peculiarity, but died during the Spanish flu outbreak. Her widow is a far less understanding man. I have only met my nieces and nephew once, a long time ago. We are not entirely different, in that regard._

_But, I know I am lucky to have any kind of family at all. I only wish they could have the privilege in turn of meeting you._

_Your,_  
R

***

He doesn't have any bright ideas. And he wouldn't tell Lady Mary even if he did. It's not fair and it's not right to drag anyone into his perverted world, let alone a woman, let alone his _employer_. And no matter what she says, Carson barely took a day off in all his years as butler. Thomas is very aware of that.

So he does nothing. In the morning he reads his letters and in the evening he writes them, and in between he lives just that, like it is an in between. Part of him is always thinking about neat handwriting and soft lips. Part of him is in a constant state of amazement that this, this is his life now. Part of him thrums with fear, at the thought of forgetting to lock the box under his bed, of policemen with hard fists and cold eyes. Sometimes at night he can't sleep for thinking about all those men, men just like him, working class and ordinary, except they weren't ordinary, were they? He thinks of the man he danced with. He can't remember his name. He wonders where he is now, and his heart aches at the unfairness of it all. Thomas had never considered himself a lucky man before.

And the letters continue. Someone must have had a word with Daisy and Albert because they don't ask him about them anymore. Thomas hopes it was of the privacy rather than the _did you know your butler's a pervert_ kind, and he supposes it must have been, because they still look him in the eye and he doesn't see disgust or fear or hatred when they do. Sometimes he sees Mrs Hughes watching him, although she forces herself to smile when he notices. The anxiety in her eyes is familiar, yet still unsettling.

Christmas comes and goes. On New Year's Eve Lord Granthan bestows a crate of wine on him and says to let the servants have some fun. And they do have fun. Until, as the clock nears midnight, everyone starts coupling up. Andy and Daisy. Mr and Mrs Bates. Mrs Hughes and William's father. Mrs Hughes and Carson, the bastard. Even Albert starts nudging towards one of the maids. Thomas ends up sitting by the fire with Miss Baxter. As twelve o'clock strikes, he remarks dryly, "I hope you haven't been planning on me kissing you."

Miss Baxter coughs into her glass.

"Get away with you," she says, laughing, and although the wine makes it easy for him to join in, there is still a tug in his heart as he does. For the first time, it's a different kind of pain. Not the pain of being alone, endlessly, painfully alone, with no end in sight. The pain of having someone, yet being unable to be with them.

He wonders what Richard is doing right now, what he is thinking. Thomas imagines him being here. He imagines smiling at him. He imagines kissing him, and wonders who would call the police first. Without deciding to, he takes the locket out his pocket and curls his fingers around it. Miss Baxter moves closer to him.

"This is difficult for you, isn't it," she says, quietly.

Thomas doesn't ask what she is referring to. It's not a question, anyway. They both watch the couples staring at each other, hands clasped between them. Andy and Daisy. Mr and Mrs Bates. Mrs Patmore and William's father. Mrs Hughes and Carson. Thomas meets Mosley's eye across the room; he grimaces and looks away. He'd hoped the idiot might finally use tonight to make a move. Perhaps he should talk to him. He almost laughs imagining how that conversation would play out.

"Mr Barrow?"

"Yes," he says, and he surprises himself with the frankness of his answer, "Yes, it is. Times like this make me feel -"

"Different," Miss Baxter supplies, voice soft, "I understand."

She doesn't; she can't, but Thomas thinks it is nice she is trying to. It's more than anyone else world can do.

"You could have invited him," she continues, in the same gentle voice, "I can't imagine anyone would mind."

Thomas looks at Carson. He beams as he kisses Mrs Hughes - casually, thoughtlessly.

"I can."

"Well, even if they did, what could they say? You're allowed to have friends."

He remembers what he said to Richard, about it being nice to have a friend. He remembers his reply. He remembers what followed, and he looks ahead and his heart aches.

"It wouldn't work."

"Mr Barrow-"

"It wouldn't. It's a nice thought but it's just not possible."

And the thing is: she doesn't argue. She doesn't disagree. She sits beside him, and she meets Moseley's eye and smiles, and Thomas thinks about crying. He clutches the locket in his hand and he thinks of other impossibles.

***

_My Dearest, _R,

_I miss you_.

_Your beloved,_  
T


	2. Part two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well. Hello. I wish I had a reason for such a delay in posting this, but I don't. All I can say is that I thought I had about 2/3rds of this chapter written and was procrastinating filler, until I realised that it wasn't actually filler at all, and now this chapter is double the length of the previous one. So, there's that.
> 
> Thank you for all your comments. I have read every single one, and they mean so, so much to me, more than I can say. It has been a difficult few months, and they have made me smile when I thought I'd forgotten how to.
> 
> In the time between posting there has been a global pandemic. If you told me this would be the case the last time I pressed post I wouldn't have believed you. I hope that you and your loved ones are well, and that your reality will be able to resume as soon as it is safe to do so. Please don't drive to Durham.

_My Dearest, R,_

_I cannot express the pain it causes me to hear you are a lover of cats. We had one as a child, to scare the rats that lurked inside the clocks, and it bit me far more than it did those poor little creatures. Dogs, on the other hand, are far superior. I still regret locking away poor Isis! I am glad we can laugh about it now._

_I did own a puppy for a short while. I found it beneath a bridge, and kept it a secret for a whole week. My father drowned it when he found it. Since then I have dreamt of letting my own children have as many puppies as they want. I would rather like to one day have one, if not the other._

_Your,_   
_T_

***

1928

Thomas hates the winter. Even after all these years the morning frost reminds him of frozen mud and frostbitten fingers. It makes his hand grow sore and stiff beneath its glove, and it makes the scars on his wrist, by now silver, almost invisible, twinge, perhaps with memories.

He never does have to talk Moseley. They marry at the end of January. Thomas walks Miss Baxter down the aisle, and if anyone thinks it strange they don't comment. It is a nice day, and a beautiful ceremony. That is what Thomas thinks as he stands beside her, and not about how this is the closest he will ever get to having and holding. _Till death do us part, _they echo, and Thomas wonders if anyone will think to tell Richard when he dies.

February brings hail. Eleven people die across Britain, and the roof breaks in eight different places. Thomas spends what feels like the entirety of the 12th and 13th placing buckets, moving buckets; on the 14th he oversleeps, and goes downstairs to find the servants' hall deserted except for Daisy, clearing plates, and a cup of tea and a package waiting at his place. She looks up when he enters, and her grin is bright with excitement.

"Mr Barrow!" she says, "This arrived for you, from your _sweetheart._"

Thomas has to sit down. "Oh."

He sent Richard something – a pair of gloves, as he had mentioned his were worn, and also his grandfather’s old pocket watch. The ticking is erratic, but Thomas trusts he will take it for what it truly it – something to remember him by. Still, he had hardly dared to hope for anything back. To hope for a Valentine's day gift from his sweetheart.

Daisy abandons the plates and sits in Mrs Hughes' seat. She props her chin on her hands and leans forward; she practically vibrates. "Well, go on then."

Thomas had planned on taking the package and opening it alone. But something in Daisy's voice changes his mind. It is nice for someone to care about his love life, for a change, rather than flinching from the barest hint of it in disgust. Daisy believes his sweetheart to be a woman; sometimes he can pretend he is not abnormal, too. Sometimes he can forget.

He opens the accompanying envelope first, in case Richard says that he should open the parcel in private. But rather than a letter, it is a card; blue flowers that Thomas smiles at, with the inside reading merely _From your valentine. _He passes it to Daisy, who glances at the inside before saying, "Go on, we've all been wondering what's inside."

Thomas decides not to dwell on that. He takes a breath, and peels back the brown paper. Daisy cranes forward as he lifts the two items out. Chocolates, in a gilded box that alone likely cost more than his month's wage, even on a butler's salary. And a book, a familiar bright yellow he hopes Daisy won't recognise, tattered with age. Daisy picks it up.

"_The Picture of Dorian Gray_," she reads, and Thomas smiles, "I haven't read it."

"I have," he says, "It's my - it's one of my favourites."

He has mentioned to Richard how he could never find it in the bookshops round here. He wonders where he bought it. Daisy reads the back cover.

"I might borrow it."

While Thomas tries to come up with a way to politely refuse she flicks through, stopping on the front page.

"RE," she reads, "Are those his initials?"

"Yeah," says Thomas, then he processes what she said and drops his (luckily stone cold) cup of tea on the table. For whatever reason it doesn’t smash, but tea splashes everywhere. "Daisy, what are you -"

She tuts without looking up. "It must be his personal copy an' all," she says, "That's dead nice of him."

"Right," Thomas says hoarsely, using the paper to mop up the spillage, "Who are you -"

"Daisy!" comes a yell, "I'm not paying you to sit there blathering about books!"

Daisy rolls her eyes and hands it back. "You're not paying me at all!" she shouts back, then says to Thomas, "I'm that glad for you, Mr Barrow" before running off, leaving Thomas sitting alone in the servants' hall with the fear and confusion in his chest turning to a warmth that is scared and hesitant, but it is there all the same.

He puts the card on the mantlepiece, with everyone elses, and no one says a thing. And later, when he hands out the chocolates to everyone, he makes sure Daisy gets two.

***

THOMAS

FATHER ILL TRAVELLING NORTH STOP MEET IN SAME YORK PUB WED EVE STOP WILL ASSUME YES UNLESS HEAR OTHERWISE

RICHARD

***

The telegram arrives during servants’ dinner. Thomas reads it three times in quick succession from his horribly conspicuous seat at the head of the table, why did he ever dream of sitting her? Each time his heart rate accelerates further. He forces himself to slow, examine each word. Travelling north. Same York Pub. Wednesday evening. Today is Monday. Thomas takes a breath. Today is _Monday_.

"Mr Barrow?" he is dimly aware of Anna saying, "Are you alright?"

It is only then he realises he is breathing rather loudly, and that makes him stop altogether, until he reminds himself that he is not doing anything wrong in receiving a telegram; in fact he’s not doing anything wrong in visiting a friend. There is nothing incriminating about that. He is allowed friends, even if he hasn’t made a habit of collecting them, or having any at all, in fact. He would do wrong to draw attention to himself with a display of emotion. Another breath, but more normal, this time. He meets Anna’s eye. She looks anxious; he realises how long it’s been since he saw that fear there.

"Very well, Anna," he says, and after checking no one else has noticed his lapse (they haven’t, of course – Thomas has been the only one you could call observant since O’Brien left – to be attacked by a tiger, he still hopes) he raises his voice just enough that he can't hear it tremble, "Mrs Hughes, I wonder if I might go out Wednesday evening? I could leave after dinner and will be back by the morning. It's to see a - an old friend."

Mrs Hughes looks at him with a sad smile, and Thomas feels as exposed as if she'd spoken to him directly.

"You hardly need to ask my permission, Mr Barrow," she says, "You're the butler now."

"I know," says Thomas, and wonders why he doesn't, "I just - wanted to."

Mrs Hughes says nothing, but keeps looking at him with that almost pitying half smile. And so when she knocks at the door to his office after dinner it is not a surprise; what would be a surprise would be to have no reaction, having had no evidence of such a person, an old friend of Thomas Barrow, existing prior to this.

They exchange their usual pleasantries - Mrs Hughes' fond, Thomas' stilted. He has never felt entirely at ease with Mrs Hughes, her in all likelihood being the person who has seen him during the greatest number of his lowest moments. Or perhaps it is a tie with Phyllis – he should do a tot up the next time he is feeling particularly self-loathing. But either way, she sees past his calm, cheerful demeanour, even if it took longer to see past the sullen, nasty one (because it was a demeanour, Thomas tells himself sternly, it was an act, and it wasn’t him), and that is disconcerting, and it is dangerous. It’s been too long for Thomas to know how to react to people caring about him.

But because of this, he is grateful, stupidly, pathetically grateful, to her for exactly that, and so he makes her tea in his favourite mug and waits until she is settled across from him to speak.

“What can I do for you?” says Thomas; he impresses himself with the authenticity of the question in his voice.

Mrs Hughes presses her lips together. She cups her tea with her hands and squeezes.

"Mr Barrow," she says, "We have known each other a long time."

"We have," Thomas agrees, “Too long to mention in company.”

She almost smiles. “I tend to agree with you.”

Thomas was seventeen when he arrived here. Nothing more than a baby. It seems silly to still think about his parents’ house, the house he was born in, when he has lived at Downton Abbey that same length and more.

“So, Mr Barrow, I feel that you can’t mind my speaking candidly,” she continues, when Thomas is silent.

“Please, go ahead.”

Mrs Hughes leans forward. “Mr Barrow, I will make no secret of suspecting the reason for Mr Ellis' visit."

Thomas flinches despite his best efforts not to. He knew she’d suspect _something_, but that feels too close to the mark, even for her. His thoughts instantly go to his letters, before he forces himself to think how careful he is with them, tracking their journey from hand to pocket to lock and key. He supposes she must have seen his name on the envelopes he writes, but even those he entrusts only to Phyllis when he can’t deliver them.

"Who said anything about Mr Ellis?" he says.

"Anyone with eyes, Mr Barrow.”

He swallows. In his head, the events of the royal visit and the events of Richard feel so separate in his head he forgets that if people were present for one, they were present for at least part of the other. He hadn’t considered the fact that people would pick up on their smiles, their glances, and curses himself – he thought he was being so _subtle_, but it was no wonder Richard had known where he’d gone. Thomas wishes he could light a cigarette. He wishes he could set himself on fire and disappear like tobacco smoke.

"It's not like that," he eventually manages, but the lie is clear in his voice and Mrs Hughes smiles at it.

"Mr Barrow," she says, "Thomas. There is no need to be circumspect with me. You don't think I'm glad for you, if you've managed to snatch some happiness?"

It’s such a surprise Thomas doesn't know what to say to that. He drinks some tea.

“Well, you'd think wrong!" says Mrs Hughes, "Love is a beautiful thing, even if, well.”

She falters, falls quiet. Thomas wonders what she was going to say. Perhaps echo her husband. _Love is a beautiful thing, even if you should be horsewhipped for it._

“It’s just that, well,” and she leans even further forward and places her hand on Thomas’ where it wraps around his mug. Her left hand. He stares at the ring on her fourth finger instead of at her face, but imagines it, creased in concern, curled in distaste. “Thomas, you need to be _careful_.”

That makes him look up at her in surprise. Of all the things he’s been told he needs to do, be nicer, be kinder, don’t polish it like that, do it like _that_, being careful is never something he’s had to be instructed to do. He just is. How could he not? People breathe to survive; people eat and drink and circulate blood, and in the same way Thomas is cautious. He is wary. He has to be, just to stay alive.

Of course, there are times where his caution has failed him, but he’s only human, isn’t he? And with Richard he has never let himself slip, not once, the same way he has scratched the tureen used for the servants’ dinner, but never the ornamental silver. How could he, when to drop his guard for even a moment would be to risk the most precious thing he has ever had?

Thomas realises Mrs Hughes is waiting for a reply.

“I didn’t realise I wasn’t being careful,” he says. Carefully.

“I suppose you are,” says Mrs Hughes, “But you’re not exactly being subtle. All the letters, for one thing.”

“So I’m not allowed to talk to people?”

“I don’t mean that. And I’m not trying to scare you, or tell you that you shouldn’t have a sweetheart.”

“So what are you trying to tell me?” It comes out more angry than Thomas means it to. Petulant. Mrs Hughes’ face softens.

“Just to be careful, Thomas, that’s all.”

“You think I don’t know that?”

“I think you know it more than most,” says Mrs Hughes, and the room echoes with the sound of Miss O’Brien’s shrill voice.

“Then why say it?”

“Because people are, well. They’re beginning to suspect something.”

“I’m sure many do suspect, knowing what everyone seems to about me, but I don’t see how I can stop people _thinking_. Besides, not like you can go to the police on a suspicion.” But you can, he knows you can, and he also knows that having his name down twice now wouldn’t play kindly in his favour.

Mrs Hughes sighs. "I don't wish to scare you with what is at stake," she says, "Just remind you. When we are lost in the spells of love sometimes it is easy to forget."

Thomas almost laughs at the thought of that, of being able to simply forget. Or better still, not have the threat of incarceration looming over you, knowing it to be a very real possibility if you were to slip up for even a moment. Thomas imagines it. Forgetting. He wishes that he could, just for a moment or two.

“I know,” he says, “And I thank you. For caring. But you don’t need to worry about me. I know what I’m doing.”

“Of course I care,” says Mrs Hughes, “But Thomas, are you sure you realise how much your risking?”

“My job,” he says dully, “My freedom. My life.”

Mrs Hughes squeezes his hand, tightly and suddenly, almost like a convulsion. “I only hope Mr Ellis is worth it.”

_Yes_, Thomas thinks, _I hope so too._

***

When Thomas reaches the pub on Wednesday evening it is empty, and the sight makes him so anxious he waits outside instead. He is glad he chose this when Richard appears, not on foot, but in a gleaming olive green car. Thomas laughs aloud as he parks several metres away and jumps out, grinning broadly at him.

“Who’d you mug to get that?” Thomas calls.

“My brother in law,” says Richard, glancing from side to side before crossing the road, “He’s become quite the social climber since I last saw him, it transpires.”

“Won’t he be angry you’ve taken it?”

“Absolutely furious, but it’s worth it for your face.”

Richard reaches him and holds out his hand, and even though Thomas knows it’s not like they could greet each other any other way, his heart still sinks as he shakes it. He lets go quickly and stuffs his hands in his pocket. Richard’s smile doesn’t falter.

“Shall we?” He leads the way into the pub, and Thomas follows him. There are a few patrons now, but it is still quiet, and he sees Richard hesitate before saying, bracingly, “Just the one pint, then.”

Thomas sits at a corner table while Richard fetches them. He watches him charm the tender, a girl about Albert’s age and similarly gormless, with a kind of wonder, before he returns, drinks in hand. For a moment they sit in silence, staring at each other. Thomas remembers himself first.

“How is your father?”

Richard’s brows furrow, and Thomas curses himself. Of all the questions to begin with.

“I’m sorry, you don’t –“

“It’s alright,” says Richard, waving a hand, “He’s unwell, of course. He’s had bouts of dropsy for some times now, and this flare up has been particularly bad.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Well, the doctors don’t seem to think it’s fatal, even if they have gathered us all to his bedside.”

“That’s good, then.”

“Hardly. Wilson won’t accept anything less than a death certificate for justification of my absence.” When Thomas gapes at him, Richard laughs. “I’m joking, Thomas. May I call you that?”

“Please, do. I apologise, Mr Ellis.”

“You don’t have to do that. And please, if I am to refer to you as a friend, do return the favour. Richard.”

“Not Dick?”

“God, no. Ghastly name, I haven’t used it since I were a boy. You’ve never been a Tommy?”

“Only during the war, and not by me. Luckily I was never a Tom, the Mr Branson is a Tom, it would get terribly confusing.”

“Tom’s quite the name for a nobleman.”

“That’s because he’s not a nobleman. He’s the Irish chauffer who married the youngest daughter.”

“Really?” Richard leans forward, and Thomas forces his breathing to remain level. “How scandalous.”

“It was at the time, I suppose, but you’d be surprised how used to it we are by now.”

“And the scandal of the king’s visit? Are you used to that?”

Thomas winces. “Please, if I ask anything of you can it be we don’t discuss that. I’m sick to death of hearing about it.”

Richard’s eyes twinkle. “How very anti-monarchist of you, Thomas. I could have you arrested for treason.”

“That would merely add to the house’s repertoire of transgressions.”

“Are there really so many?”

Thomas relays a few highlights, neatly skirting over any of his own misdemeanours and spending a particularly long time on Bates, because in all actuality it wouldn’t have mattered if he _had_ killed his wife, he still would’ve been welcomed back with open arms and that has always felt to Thomas for one thing unfair, and another really very reckless. Richard is a good listener. He laughs and scowls and grimaces in all the right places; he asks enough questions to show that he is paying attention, and that makes Thomas start to smile too, because it is rare anyone trusts what he has to say enough to do that. One pint turns into two, into three. Richard regales Thomas with some similar stories from the palace, which all seem a lot more exciting because no matter what he said it’s, well, the palace, but Thomas tries not to let it bother him, and for once he succeeds. As they talk the pub fills and the noise grows around them, to Thomas’ immense relief, as it allows them to talk not freely, but certainly with less anxiety. After their fourth pint Thomas can’t help but check the time, and is surprised to find it after eleven. Richard looks too, and says, “Should you be getting back, Thomas?”

“Well,” Thomas falters; he knows in his heart he has to be sensible, but wishes he didn’t, “My last train is at half past, is all.”

“I can drive you back.”

“Even then, I need to be awake at five tomorrow.”

“Perhaps we should be leaving, then,” says Richard, and Thomas can’t help but feel a thrill of pleasure at the obvious regret in his voice.

“We could take a walk, first, to sober up a little.”

“What a pleasant idea.”

So they stand and press through the throng of merrymakers to the door. Thomas glances back at their empty glasses on the table. It’s the only marker they will leave on the place, however temporary, the only sign they were here, and it makes him smile, the fact he _was_ here, having a drink with his sweetheart like any other man. He feels as though he’s tricked every person in there. _You had a couple of perverts sitting among you, and you didn’t even notice_. But that makes him frown. No one _did_ notice; no one stared, no one died, no one was whisked straight to the fiery pits of hell. If that was the case, then what harm could it have done if they had known? If they had been able to hold hands, or lean close, or –

Or. Outside it is cold. Thomas shivers as the door swings shut behind him, taking with it the light of the pub and leaving them in semi-darkness. He puts his hands in his pockets and draws his coat tightly around them; Richard does the same as they set off down the deserted street.

“I hope we don’t forget where the car is.” Thomas says it to break the silence, suddenly there where it wasn’t before and loaded with _something_; it works, and Richard laughs.

“I don’t think that’s likely. I know York well.”

“Do your parents live in the centre of the city?”

“Almost. A bit west of the station, a place called Chapelfields. But I spent a lot of my childhood running around these streets.”

“Making mischief?”

“Not nearly as much as you did during your night here.”

Ah. Thomas had wondered when they would come to this.

“It was quite the evening,” he says carefully.

"I hope you're not tempted to repeat it.”

Richard’s voice is light, as though the thought is laughable in its probability. Thomas takes a deep breath.

"But I am," he says, "Tempted, I mean. Even after what happened."

Richard is quiet for a long moment.

"Does that make me daft?" he says, trying to mirror Richard’s tone.

"No," says Richard, and he's not laughing anymore, "No, it is the world who are the daft ones, not you. Nor I."

"Us," says Thomas, automatic and he regrets it immediately, thinking he has stepped too far. But Richard smiles.

"Us," he affirms.

A miracle. To be part of an us, for once in his life.

The night is quiet.

"Do you?" says Thomas, "Or rather, did you ever -"

"No." The answer is immediate.

"Oh," says Thomas, "Only, I wondered, if you knew, you found us so quickly -"

"Luck. Or a gut instinct, maybe. I passed a police van and followed."

"So you didn't know I -"

"Not until I saw you get put in the van. I hoped, of course. A dangerous pursuit."

"I wondered," Thomas says again, lamely. Then: "So had you not seen me, then, would you -"

"Have made my move?" Richard laughs, the sound lifting in the air. "Unlikely. I fear I am far more of a coward than you seem to give me credit for."

"Going into the police station wasn't cowardly. I was the coward, sitting in there, shaking and -"

"What more could you have done? Of course you were scared. It would be foolish not to be."

"I've done a lot of foolish things."

"I think many a man would say so."

_But many a man doesn't wear it in the fabric of his skin_, Thomas almost says. He almost says it. He almost rips off his glove, pulls up his sleeves, pushes down his trousers to reveal the circular scar on his hip, still red and angry, like a bullet wound. Thomas wishes it were a bullet wound. _Look, look at the fool I am._

"I am sure you wouldn't."

Richard looks at him. He takes his hand and he pulls him into an alleyway and he leans in and he says, "Is this not foolish?" and he kisses him. It is dark and they are nothing but shadows but Thomas thinks of Mrs Hughes and it is dangerous, it is so dangerous. But then, their conversation is dangerous, and their being together is dangerous, and their sheer existence is dangerous and Thomas is tired of it. He is tired of feeling scared to be alive.

Richard kisses him and a car passes and in unison they stop and turn their faces away. Thomas feels the heat of the headlights on his back and the warmth on his mouth and his heart thumping so hard it fills him. The car passes. Richard puts his hand on the small of Thomas' back and he feels it trembling. Thomas wishes that contact was enough.

"I wish there was somewhere we could go," he whispers, "A pub. A hotel. A bloody cafe. Anywhere. Somewhere we could just be together without feeling so bloody scared."

Richard removes his hand. He moves away. He lights a cigarette. "We could go to Paris."

Thomas stares at him. In the darkness he can only make out the bare bones of Richard's features. The slope of his nose, his lips. The glow of his eyes.

"I don't speak French," he says, stupidly.

"_Bonjour_."

"You do?"

"No, that's all I know."

He holds out the cigarette to Thomas and Thomas takes it.

"We could muddle through. I hear there's quite a hub there. It’s almost accepted, our sort. Tangiers, too. Many places, in fact."

"Do they have butlers in Tangiers?"

"You don't want to be a butler forever, do you?"

It's what he's wanted since he went into service aged fifteen. It's all he's ever allowed himself to want.

"I don't know."

"Then think. Think about it."

Their eyes meet. Thomas opens his mouth and Richard shakes his head and he closes it.

"I will," he says instead, and Richard smiles.

Without discussing it, they return to the car. What has needed to be said has been said, and Richard drives him back to the Abbey. Thomas is reminded if the other drive they made, when he'd felt so small and dirty he could be but a speck of dirt. Now he feels like he could fly. He looks over at Richard. One hand rests idly on the steering wheel, the other on his thigh. He smiles, small and wonderful. Thomas wonders what he's thinking about.

The drive is quiet. Thomas feels almost as though he is wasting time in not filling it with words, using it to learn more about Richard, about his voice and his eyes and his mannerisms as he speaks. He wishes their time were not limited, that he could feel they afford the luxury of such silence. Richard glances over at him and moves his hand to Thomas' knee and he feels his body alight at the contact. He stares at Richard's long narrow fingers, encased in dark leather. He's wearing the gloves Thomas bought him. Thomas wishes he could have seen him open them. He looks at the hand on his knee and wishes this, light touch and gentle quiet, could be their always, and that it could be enough. Richard squeezes and lets go as they pull into the drive and Thomas wishes so many things his heart hurts.

Gravel crackles beneath them and above them the sky is black and clear and open. Richard glances at it out the window and says, idly, "I can never get used to the stars out here. In London, even in York, you're lucky to catch one or two."

"I suppose," says Thomas. He cannot remember a time when the sky was not full.

Gravel changes to the whir on stone as they approach the servants’ entrance. Richard stops. Thomas looks at him. Their breathing feels deafening in the silence. And then he doesn't know who starts forward first but they're kissing, Richard's mouth is on Thomas' and Thomas' on his and his hand is on his thigh and he can’t be close enough, and Thomas slides a hand into Richard’s hair and the strands at the nape of his neck are so unbearably soft, and their mouths move together and Richard makes a small noise and he grips his thigh and it is everything, it is _everything_. As they kiss Richard becomes not just a man, a man with a kind crooked smile and glowing eyes and a mouth that is hot and calmly mentions such impossibilities as Paris, a man who Thomas thinks that if he doesn’t love now, he will love very soon. He becomes a possibility, a possibility of _Paris_, of acceptance and companionship and escape. He becomes the top of the mountain, the sun Thomas orbits, every star in his sky. He becomes everything Thomas has never let himself want since he was thirteen years old and realised that he would never be happy. And he is. He could be. He can be. As he presses closer Richard pulls away and Thomas realises it’s because his cheeks are wet, and he is crying. Richard looks at him with such concern, such infinite tenderness, that Thomas cries harder, like he hasn’t in many, many years.

Richard brushes his thumb under Thomas’ eye and leaves his hand there. “What’s wrong, Thomas?” he murmurs, and Thomas laughs.

“It’s absurd, really,” he says, “I just – I’m so old. It’s been so long. I never thought I’d get to feel like this.”

And it is absurd. He is absurd. But Richard kisses him again anyway.

***

And then Richard leaves. Thomas gets out of the car and Richard stays in it and he waits until Thomas is inside before driving away, because they live in a world where Thomas cannot invite him in to share his bed or a kiss or even a cup of tea. Thomas stands in the hallway and listens to the hum of the motor die away and he thinks about this. He thinks about this, but there is still a smile on his face and a warmth in his chest of an emotion so foreign he doesn’t recognise it, not at first.

He starts to save. Just a little, here and there. He never was extravagant with his wages, but then, he couldn’t afford to be. A butler’s salary is more generous, but nonetheless he stops buying whiskey and darns his day suit instead of buying the one in York he’d been eyeing. He sends his letters to Richard with a second rather than first class stamp, and hopes that he understands.

In the summer Mary gets her wish and Thomas accompanies her to London, nothing more than a flying visit, but Richard feigns an errand and they walk the length and breadth of St James’ Park together, once, and then twice. They don’t touch except to shake hands and it isn’t enough, it isn’t nearly enough, but they both pretend that it is and that almost makes it true. In December Richard visits his parents, not on Christmas day, of course, but in the days following, and when she hears about it Anna pulls Thomas aside to tell him that she knows he has a half-day scheduled for the 29th, and it just so happens that she and Bates’ cottage will be empty that day, and that there is a spare key hidden under a loose stone beside the gate if anyone were to want to make use of it. And Thomas decides he does want, quite a lot actually. They stay in the front room and don’t do anything besides kiss, of course, and hold hands, and Thomas spends a lot of the time tucked beneath Richard’s arm which is where he is when the door goes and they spring apart, but Mr Bates just raises his eyebrows and says, “Good evening, gentlemen,” while Anna blinks, almost as if about to cry. They invite them both to stay for dinner and Thomas goes to refuse but Richard gets there first, and it is surprisingly nice. Johnny sits on Thomas’ lap and Anna enquires about Richard’s work and Mr Bates restrains himself from being antagonising, but then, so does Thomas. Or maybe Bates doesn’t have to restrain himself. At the end of the meal Thomas realises he didn’t.

They make love for the first time in a rain-lashed room above a pub in Derby the following October. Thomas doesn’t know when the second time will be, or if it will even exist at all. But still, he saves. He writes. Time passes. He is hopeful.

**Author's Note:**

> So what Lady Mary said is canon,  
right?


End file.
